“Their lack of contact with us, and particularly their failure to warn us off by threatening the lives of hostages, means they probably don't have any left to threaten. So I suspect that we are in a free-fire situation. However, we can't be sure of that, and we definitely want to take these bastards alive, both because that's in accordance with regulations, and because we really—really—need to interrogate them.”
“What? Why?” Lewis asked.
“Because even among the few cases of deep-space hijacking or mutiny on record, this one is the odd-ball outlier. They're not after hostages, or the ship itself, so they're playing some other game—and we need to talk to a few of them if we're ever going to learn what that game is. Set up our entry, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Burns, you will lead the room breaches using the spray-gun.”
Roderigo was already pulling what looked like a wide-muzzled, sawed-off grenade launcher off his shoulder.
“Open the choke for maximum dispersion, and use the heavy tranq rounds.”
“Uh, Sarge, the chemical warfare experts told us that if a target is small, wounded, or has a coronary condit—”
Finder fixed Burns with a sharklike stare. “If the bastards die, the bastards die. We'll take every precaution, but with that tube of yours set on wide dispersal, you can't count on multiple hits. One gel bead is going to have to take any target down. So today you're serving up double-strength sleepy-time cocktails.”
“Roger that, Sarge.”
“The L.T. and I will be carrying the lethal firepower to clear the passageways, moving forward by leapfrog advance.”
Lewis frowned. “What about me?”
“You keep a tight hold on that carbine, Lewis. You're our ace in the hole. If the spray gun jams, or we bypass some hostiles and they come out on our rear, you're going to be our fire brigade. As needed, we'll call you forward to outflank them, or add your heavier firepower to ours.”
“So I stay all the way back here?”
“Yes—which also guarantees that if everything goes south and we have to beat ass out of here, you're holding the exit open for us.”
Lewis shrugged. “Yes, Sarge.”
“Good. Lieutenant, whenever you're ready, just give the word.”
Lee nodded. “The word is given.”
* * *
It was pretty much what Lee had expected. They entered the forward decks unopposed—except for the silent scrutiny of reangled video pickups, and the accusing stares of floating bodies.
The hijackers had killed crew and passengers alike. One of the latter—a Loonie, judging from her unnaturally lean build—couldn't have been more than fourteen years old. Maybe not even that much. Lee clamped his molars down hard and pushed on through the mid-air sargasso sea of corpses and blood globules.
Tagging closed stateroom hatches with small opening alarms to alert them to anyone emerging into their rear, they propelled themselves toward the bridge at best speed—
And were met halfway by two ill-shaven men who had obviously seen them coming on the realigned security cameras. The good news was that the enemy's armament was fairly light. One had a regulation ten millimeter pistol, the other had what looked like a repeating compressed air spear gun made out of spare parts. The bad news was that they were in their space suits: Roderigo's spray gun would be useless unless it hit them in the face.
Damn it, Lee thought, even as he shouted, “Burns, switch to lethals. Fire at will.”
As in most meeting engagements, most of the shots went wild. As in most zero-gee combat, the shots were wilder than usual. Burns was late swapping weapons, got a small spear cum crossbow bolt in the left shoulder of his hard-suit. It was impossible to tell from his grunt whether it had penetrated or merely thumped him mightily. Either way, he was now trying to correct a modest backward tumble.
Finder pitched forward, so that he was aimed face-and-shoulders first at his attackers. Lee did the same, appreciating how this nonregulation “prone posture” both minimized his body's silhouette, and put it in line with the recoil of his weapon. There would be push-back, yes, but little if any tumble.
And that seemed to be helping Finder's marksmanship. As the enemy's own ten millimeter rounds spanged and sparked overhead, the sergeant fired twice, paused and then fired a third time. The pistol-wielding thug went backward, struggling, trying to bring his pistol around to bear again. Finder ended that attempt with a fourth shot.
But Lee was too busy to see the outcome. Sighting down through his own weapon's basic peep sight, he